Just the Messenger (2 page)

Grace nodded, her eyes down. Then she raised her head and met his gaze.

“And if I do move? Find a job?” Her voice remained cool.

He admired her grit. “I wouldn’t recommend that.”

“Is that a threat?”

Gene hedged the question. “There is, of course, another alternative.”

“Which is?”

“You’ll need to expand your responsibilities for us. You’ll need to be more involved in operations and have more access to our files. You’ll not understand most of it, especially at first. All information will come on a need-to-know basis. You will not ask questions. You will not explore or dig further than asked. I will move you to a place of convenience to me. Based on your performance as courier, I’ve no doubt you can carry out these duties admirably, and I’d like to take you on as an assistant.”

“Do I have time to think about it?”

Gene smiled broadly. Bargaining, even now.

“No,” he said.

* * * *

Marco Valencia surveyed the news studio from across Sixth Avenue. The building looked normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. No trace of the plot he’d seen outlined in that messenger’s folder.

According to the Photoshopped images, there would be a murder here. But why? And was Gene Hardy trying to stop it, or was he facilitating?

Marco had only worked with Hardy once, when their organizations teamed up to stop a massive drug deal on Ellis Island. Private espionage services rarely worked with the government, but in that instance, Hardy’s men had banded with the Investigative Intelligence Bureau to infiltrate the Brazilian drug cartel and bring it down. Marco found it hard to believe that that smoldering, blond businessman would be involved in something illegal. Hardy’s rock-solid morals wouldn’t allow the man to kill for money, would they? Still, Marco couldn’t argue with the photo evidence of the plan set in motion. And he’d heard the rumors about how the man had left the IIB all those years ago…

When the government had placed Marco in the old warehouse as an intern, they’d only instructed him to keep watch over LJ Rinkleton, the man to whom Grace was delivering the photos, and the man who reported directly to the leader of gang drug operations within the city. Any move Rinkleton made was to be documented and reported back immediately. When Marco had told his boss about the folder, he had been instructed to quit his job at the warehouse immediately. He was to start work that very day as an associate producer for a news corporation, his new mission to protect television personality Warren Bell. The investigative reporter was currently knee-deep uncovering the city’s gang involvement in the cocaine trade in Central Park. The story seemed local, but it had monetary repercussions from Manhattan all the way to Colombia, Marco’s home country. Marco figured that was why he had been given this job. Should he have to move south, he’d be welcomed there, at least more than a Gringo. The IIB already had spies down there who would help his transition, if need be.

For now, though, he would stick within the city limits, an arrangement fine by Marco. Any excuse to work near Gene Hardy excited him. Marco recalled their last mission together fondly, the contours of the man’s muscular chest and abdomen still fresh on his fingertips. He smiled to himself. With all the regulations he had to follow, his favorite one to break was the rule against mixing business with pleasure. The blue-eyed, trim espionage director had seemed to agree when he’d cried out in ecstasy over the edge of Marco’s bed. That had been years ago, now. Three, if one were counting. And in all that time, Marco had yet to find another man or woman to quicken his heart rate the way Gene had. Until yesterday morning when he’d bumped into Graciela Merced.

She had the sharp look of a highly educated woman who’d been down on her luck. Marco knew that the courier position at Hardy’s business was the lowest of the low, the people frequenting it often considered dispensable. Marco could hardly believe that Grace would ever be considered dispensable. She walked on four-inch spike heels as if she were born in them, the extra height putting her almost at eye level with him when they had stood side by side. It had been all he could do to concentrate on memorizing the information in front of him, so tantalizing was her profile, the pouty, heart-shaped lips, the scandalous cleavage, the high cut of her skirt showing off her toned thighs.

Still, with a flub like yesterday’s, he doubted he’d ever see her again. Messengers who disclosed information to outside sources, accidentally or otherwise, rarely got a second chance.

His thoughts cut off as the reporter he was now protecting left the building. Marco followed.

Chapter Two

Grace looked out of her new apartment window at the city trees. Though the temperature was cool for early September, the unpacking had made her hot and disgruntled. She surveyed the large area with disgust. There was still so much to be done.

When she’d accepted Gene’s proposal four days ago, he’d sent her home with instructions to pack everything she owned. When she’d asked why, she’d gotten no answer. A moving van had shown up at her place at 7:00 p.m., and the driver had instructed her to follow him after he’d stacked her small furniture and boxes inside. He’d left the large pieces. She had ended up here at Cornerstone Heights, right outside Central Park. The apartment was furnished with a king-sized platform bed, two matching dressers and a vanity in the bedroom. The dining area consisted of a high, ebony table and four elegant bar-stool chairs. She hadn’t needed to bring her pots and pans. A full, top-of-the-line kitchen set awaited her here. In fact, everything she could possibly need was here, and all in impeccable taste.

A phone machine had blinked at her when she first walked in.

“Settle in. Take your time. We’ll call you in four days.” Even on a recorded message, Gene’s voice sounded deep and sultry, curling around her senses.

Grace thought the decadence and luxury should be relaxing her. Instead, it intensified her nerves. No photography business, no matter how lucrative, could afford to put their employees up in this kind of style. Doubts clung to the outer fringes of her mind as she wondered what she had gotten herself into.

Pushing the negativity away, she ignored the rest of the boxes and ran herself a bath in the whirlpool tub. She rummaged in the fridge and found the unopened bottle of white wine someone had left her. She smiled and poured a glass of chardonnay while the water filled. After slipping out of her jeans and T-shirt, she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her torso.

Just then, there was a knock on the door.

She managed to make out a shock of golden hair through the peephole, and her heart quickened. Gene.

She opened the door a crack, meaning to ask him to wait a moment while she put on some clothing, but he barged through. He then looked surprised at her state of undress, as if he’d expected her to be in business wear, awaiting his arrival.

“Did they provide you with any scotch?” he asked gruffly as his eyes raked over her towel-clad flesh.

“Hello to you, too.” She hid her face behind the veil of her curls in embarrassment, but her voice remained even and soft. She was allowed to bathe in her own home.

He strode to the tan suede couch in the living area and slid onto the middle cushion, his body slumping so that his knees were parallel to the floor. His black suit jacket crinkled around his elbows and bunched at his shoulders, but he didn’t take it off.

“How about that scotch?” he asked, staring now at the white wall in front of him.

Grace turned on her heel and headed for the bedroom. She put on a red pencil skirt and cream colored top, then placed modest two-inch beige heels on her feet. She bunched up her hair in a tousled bun, pinning it there with two clips. She wanted to look her best during this impromptu meeting, regardless of the impression her state of undress might have given.

She stopped by the kitchen before returning to Gene.

“No scotch,” she said, handing him a large glass of chardonnay. “This is the only alcohol I’ve got.” The way he looked at her made her stomach clench, a barely concealed hunger lurking right behind his eyes. She felt suddenly nervous about having him in her apartment. In this state, he reminded her of an animal on the prowl. A wounded animal.

“This will have to do.” His upper lip curled in frustration as he brought the glass to it.

“I thought you were just going to call me, not come over,” Grace said, her nerves getting the better of her, forcing her to speak.

“So I see.” The sardonic smile didn’t reach his ice-blue eyes. He took another sip of wine before continuing. “There’s a snag in our…arrangement. It turns out the person who saw the documents was no random man. He’s a spy working for the government. While technically, we’re on the same side, fumbling interference from the IIB at this point could put lives in danger.” He stopped short and stared at her.

“I’m…I’m sorry.” Grace didn’t know what he wanted from her, but from the look on his face, a mumbled apology wasn’t it.

He shook his head and stood then crossed the tiled floor toward her. “Sorry isn’t good enough, I’m afraid,” he said as he closed in on her, inches from her face.

She stood her ground but couldn’t look at him. If only she had some idea what any of this was about. She didn’t want her ignorance to show. She felt she should be catching on, not drowning in uncertainty. The sea-like depths of his eyes wouldn’t help that sensation.

She felt a warm, broad hand on her forearm, and it pulled on her. Gene’s other arm wrapped around her shoulders, the wine glass held steady in his fingers. Unable to do anything but hang on, Grace stilled and waited, every nerve-ending in her body humming for more, begging her to tilt her face, to look at the Adonis who’d captured her in his grip. If she did, their lips would be but an inch apart. She kept her stance.

“I’m going to need you to dispose of him,” Gene murmured into her ear.

His breath spiked arrows of pleasure over her skin. Until she realized what he’d just said.

“Dispose of him?” She straightened, trying to pull herself away from her boss, who apparently had nothing to do with photography.

“Yes,” Gene said, matter-of-factly, before tightening his grip and pulling her so that her breasts touched his burgundy tie. “Consider it a test of sorts. If you can do this, if you can fix the error you made, you’re in, and we’ll set you up for life. If you fail…well, now you know how we work.”

Grace shuddered out of fear and out of desire. Gene’s sweet cologne was distracting her thoughts, his embrace taking the edge off his sinister words.

“Do you mean for me to kill him?”

Gene shook his head slightly. “If you must. The point is to make sure he keeps the government out of our business. If you can do that without death, using…other means,” Gene shifted her down against the erection straining his slacks for emphasis, “then that’s okay, too. Do what you have to do.”

The burning length against her abdomen made her woozy with need. She gazed upon him with heavily lidded eyes, trying to formulate a reply, when he bent down, slipped his strong arm behind her neck and kissed her.

Hard and fast, Gene conquered her lips, slanting his mouth over them and teasing them open with his tongue. He drank of her then, for a few precious seconds, before breaking contact and gently pushing her away, leaving her breathless and disheveled.

He straightened his tie and cleared his throat.

“You’ve got one week from today,” he said as he walked to the door and opened it. “Marco Valencia is now working at the CableNette Building on Sixth Avenue.” He turned to give her one last, searing glance. “Good luck, Gracie. I hope you make it.”

The door shut with a foreboding crack behind him.

* * * *

The air had a sinister weight to it. Everything Marco saw took on an eerie tone, which blatantly opposed the sun-drenched trees and bright blue skies as he walked the perimeter of the park on his lunch break from his new job. The squirrels seemed to stare at him, ready to attack. Even the bums sleeping on the benches appeared to be enemies lying in wait. What had Graciela Merced done to him? He’d never complete his mission if his nerves remained fraught like this.

When he’d seen the brunette again, on his first day at the new job, he hadn’t thought much of it. He’d only caught a fleeting glance of curls, a tight blue dress and white heels walking around the corner to Times Square. It could have been any woman, on a lunchtime date in the city or going to a business meeting. The next day, he saw her on one of the benches in the park, a pink wool skirt to guard against the cold, her long legs, tapering down to the soft grass, covered by the lightest sheen of nylon stockings. They’d locked eyes then, and the stormy gray irises had looked fearful for just a moment before the contact was broken and she’d gotten up, walked away, her conservative black heels clicking over the pavement. By the third day, Grace had wised up. Clad in jeans and a white sweater, her curls pushed pack into a ponytail, Grace moved quickly after him on her sneakered feet
.
She followed his entire lunch-hour route.

Marco’s smile was tight. He hadn’t seen her yet today. Either she was finally getting the hang of following someone without them noticing, or she hadn’t shown up. Whichever the case, it made him nervous. The woman clearly wasn’t cut out for espionage. Marco had planned on cornering her today and making her tell him what she was doing there, but Warren Bell had forced other plans on him. Marco stayed twenty yards behind the man but never lost sight of him. He smirked at the strange procession they’d been making lately. He kept following Warren, while Grace kept following Marco.